The Devil and the Heiress

by Harper St. George

  He knew immediately that it was Violet singing. The soft rasp of her voice coming through the closed door was unmistakable. A pleasant chill tingled over his skin and down his spine. By the time he neared the foot of the stairs, it was over, to be replaced by light applause. Violet said something, but her voice was too muffled to distinguish the words. Laughter followed. The music room door clicked open, and a maid hurried out, leaving the door ajar behind her.

  A decent man would have kept walking and not lingered as he passed the partially open door. He would have smiled at the giggles spilling out of the room and hurried on his way to his next appointment. Everyone knew that Christian was not a decent man. He owned a reputation notorious for indecent things.

  He stopped at the gap, arrested by a swirl of pale yellow and an upswept chestnut coiffure that hurried past the open door. The woman’s face was not visible to him, but like the voice, he knew she was Violet. She clapped her hands once, rounding up her charges—all debutantes her own age—to have them give their attention to the next performer. He could not see the poor girl who started the next song, but her voice was atrociously high. Pity that she had to perform after Violet might have stirred within him had Violet not come to stand on the far side of the room directly in his line of sight. She stopped everything for him.

  In profile, it was obvious that her nose was possibly too strong for her small features and that her mouth was likely too wide, but taken together they were perfect. Her foot tapped along to the music, making him smile because it was not the least bit proper. The hem of her gown fluttered as the toe of her shoe worked in a steady rhythm. He followed the vibrations of the fabric up to her small waist and the hug of pale yellow over her bosom where it ended in a ruffled collar at her neck. Hungry for another look at her profile, his gaze continued upward, and his heart nearly stopped in his chest when a pair of irate dark eyes settled on his.

  Her mouth quirked in displeasure.

  He had met Violet twice. The first time they had been introduced at a ball and briefly exchanged pleasantries. He had found her both charming and alluring. The second time had been when he had come to this very house several days ago with Rothschild in his quest to win back her older sister. They had exchanged words then. Unpleasant words.

  You, she had said to him here in this exact entryway. Why are you here?

  Because I like fireworks, he had answered.

  It appeared she was prepared to repeat their exchange as she made her way to him. Taking hold of the door, she glanced into the entryway, noting the footman at the door before allowing her gaze to fall on Christian. “Lord Leigh,” she said, her voice low, giving it a smooth huskiness that rasped pleasantly across his ears. An elegant brow rose in question, and she stepped out of the room, drawing the door closed behind her. “What a surprise to see you here again.”

  “Miss Crenshaw.” He inclined his head. “It would appear I cannot stay away for very long.” He teased her simply to see her flush with displeasure.

  Her eyes flared in annoyance. “How lucky we are, my lord.” Her tone implied the opposite.

  She was not above having her feelings known, even if she was refined enough to couch them in polite words. It had been years since he’d felt this spark of interest when talking with a woman. Despite his best intentions to keep it contained, a laugh escaped him.

  Violet openly glared at him. “You find humor in that?”

  “I was just thinking that I very much enjoy our encounters.”

  She had the grace to blush as she undoubtedly recalled how angry she had been during their conversation here in this entryway. She had mistakenly believed Rothschild to be unfaithful to her sister and hadn’t held back her disappointment. Instead of being a good friend and pleading Rothschild’s case, Christian had baited her.

  Swallowing, she asked, “Is there something you wanted, my lord?”

  You. All of you.

  “I am just leaving from a meeting with your father,” he said instead.

  “Ah, then please do not allow me to keep you.”

  Swirls of amber flame glittered at him from the depths of her brown eyes. No, he decided then and there, Ware would not have her. She was too good for the likes of him.

  Inclining his head, he said, “Good day, Miss Crenshaw.”

  “Good day, my lord.” She opened the door and stepped back into the room.

  He crossed the entryway, aware of the weight of her gaze on his back when he had expected her to close the door between them immediately. The footman opened the front door for him, but instead of stepping out, Christian glanced back at her. She was staring at his shoulders, her gaze slowly moving down his back. The glaze of attraction in her eyes was unmistakable.

  She flushed when she realized he had caught her and closed the door firmly between them.

  He stared at the lacquered wood grain for the space of a few heartbeats. He knew because he felt each of them as his blood rushed through his body. Talking with her always had the effect of making him more aware of himself and less aware of everything around him, except for her. He was glad for the lengths he’d already gone to attain her hand, lengths that weren’t quite aboveboard but would be worth it in the end.

  Finally, the footman made a nervous sound in the back of his throat. As Christian walked out to his carriage, he decided that he would bypass her parents in his bid to win her. They were set against him, so it made much more sense to approach the woman herself. It would not be easy given the unfavorable impression of him she had thanks to Rothschild, or perhaps she had heard murmurs of his past, but he could overcome that. It would be a simple matter of finding her heart’s desire and giving it to her. Then she would be his.

  Chapter 2

  Rose Hamilton was in London for one reason—to enjoy the Season. The number of potential husbands her parents threw her way would not change that. Perhaps it was this misunderstanding of her own nature that caused her to lower her guard.

  V. Lennox, An American and the London Season

  Violet sat at the table in the small parlor off the garden the next morning having breakfast alone. Mother was still in her room, and Papa kept up his Manhattan work routine even though most of London was still in bed, which meant he had already been ensconced in his office for hours. Violet didn’t mind. She enjoyed her mornings alone. Lately, mornings like this were the only time she had to herself to write.

  The gorgeous little room had a row of windows that looked out over the cheery walled garden in the back of their rented Mayfair townhome. A short break in the rain allowed watery sunlight to filter in through the windows, casting a golden glow over the table and the papers spread out before her, her second manuscript and one she hoped to publish under the name V. Lennox, Lennox being her mother’s maiden name. A name was scrawled at the top of each sheet with a list of attributes below. Each name was a character that she had created to represent a person she had met in London. So far she had six characters, which was fine because she was only on chapter four of her manuscript, but she needed two more gentlemen for a ball scene she had planned. The problem was that she was having a terrible time creating characters that were . . . well . . . not the same. While the gentlemen she met were almost certainly individuals with their own needs and wants, she only knew them superficially and hadn’t yet been able to dig deeper to find out who they really were. It was the problem with only meeting men at balls and dinner parties where everyone was on their best behavior.

  Sorting through the short stack, she took out the two based on her dear friend Camille, Duchess of Hereford, and Hereford himself. In her book they were the Duke and Duchess of Helford. She, a tragic figure who had been sold into marriage by her parents to a much older man; he, a fortune-hunting aristocrat who treated his bride more like a wayward stepchild than a treasured wife. The characters were so close to the truth of the situation that it made her ache to write them. She definit
ely needed to change the name to something far different. Marking through Helford, she made a note to herself.

  The next characters were an older couple. Snooty and full of their own influence in their small corner of the world, the Ashcrofts were everything Violet had come to expect from the older nobles, but they had been kind and welcoming to her family. Because they were friends with her parents, she had changed their names considerably to Lord and Lady Garfield.

  Placing those aside, she picked up the last two: her American heiress and her English suitor. Lord Lucifer, the name she had chosen to represent Lord Leigh. She could not help the smile that tugged at the corner of her lips as she read the attributes beneath his name. Arrogant and entitled, he exuded wickedness. The whispers she had heard told the story of a man who overindulged himself in sensory pleasure—women, cards, and drink (possibly more). He owned a club with the Duke of Rothschild where all manner of illicit things happened. But it wasn’t only hedonism that she discerned in him. No, there was a danger about him that she couldn’t quite understand. As someone who believed herself capable of assessing the character of a person within a matter of minutes, that alone made him very intriguing. It didn’t hurt that he was also devilishly handsome. With thick dark hair, pale gray eyes, and cheekbones that could cut glass, she imagined that Lucifer himself would take his form should he deign to set foot upon the earth.

  And the way he had gazed at her yesterday. A tiny thrill of pleasure worked its way down her spine as she remembered the look in his eyes from across the music room. He found her desirable. She would never encourage his pursuit because she was already engaged and that danger coupled with his debauched tendencies made him entirely unsuitable regardless, but she was flattered nonetheless. He was . . . something.

  A polite knock sounded at the door a moment before a footman stepped inside. “Pardon me, miss.”

  “Yes?” She hurried to arrange the papers so that he couldn’t read them. If this novel was ever published, it would have to be anonymously if she wanted to continue a peaceful relationship with her parents.

  “This came for you special delivery.” He stepped forward and placed an envelope on the table next to her scone with strawberry jam and clotted cream, a delicious indulgence she didn’t believe needed to be relegated to teatime only.

  She recognized the tight loops and practiced penmanship, even before she saw the sender’s name—Theodore Sutherland. Teddy had finally answered her pleas. Too late, but it was nice to see his name.

  “Thank you,” she said to the footman. He gave a short bow and left her alone.

  She and her family had arrived in London for the season only a month earlier. Violet and her sister, August, had naively believed that they were there to visit their friend from New York, Camille, the newly minted Duchess of Hereford, and partake in the city’s amusements. Little had they known that their parents were secretly plotting to wed one of them off to a nobleman.

  The Crenshaws were considered new money among the Old New York crowd, hence they were often shunned in the established ballrooms on Fifth Avenue. A duke in the family would change everything. Violet had been their parents’ initial offering to the Duke of Rothschild, but he had decided to pursue August. No one had been more surprised than Violet when her older sister with her business-minded ambitions had fallen in love with him.

  In a panic after Mother had proposed the marriage idea to her, Violet had both telegrammed and written to Teddy. He was the man she intended to marry. Yes, his family was from St. Louis and had earned their fortune in breweries—neither would gain him entrance into New York Society—but she didn’t care a whit about that. He was kind and thoughtful and supportive of her writing. After spending two summers together in Newport, he had asked her to marry him and she had said yes. She was not giving him up because her family wanted her to marry an aristocrat.

  But all was settled now. She would have to write Teddy back and tell him so. She probably should have already written to him. Strange that she hadn’t felt the urgency to do so before now. Perhaps because she had been so relieved that August was happy.

  Setting the letter aside, she took a sip of her tea and allowed herself to revel again in the character of Lord Lucifer. Perhaps she should have him indulge in an attempted seduction of the young American heiress in her book who was in town for the Season. Perhaps that young American heiress wouldn’t be nearly as virtuous as she should be. Heat suffused Violet’s cheeks as she imagined him stealing a kiss in a secluded corner at a ball.

  “There you are, Violet, darling,” said Mother as she hurried into the room.

  Violet startled to attention, nearly spilling her tea all over her papers in her bid to put them away. “Good morning, Mother.”

  “What do you have there?” Mother’s artfully plucked brow rose as she sat down across from Violet at the round table.

  Violet knew her mother meant the stack of facedown papers, but she picked up the letter to intentionally redirect her attention. “This? A letter from a friend.”

  “Which one?” Mother asked, pouring herself a cup of tea. “I wasn’t aware the post had already come.”

  Violet’s mouth went dry. Her parents didn’t quite approve of Teddy, and she wasn’t a very astute liar. That point had been driven home the one time she had wandered away from a summer party to walk with Teddy along the beach. They had done a fair bit more than walking. Mother had discovered her coming home with sand on her shoes and skirts, and one lie had led to another until the whole party had left to search for a missing bejeweled hairpin and a bedeviled seagull.

  But Violet could hardly admit that she had written to Teddy in a pique of desperation.

  “Amelia,” she said. More words threatened to spill from her lips like marbles scattering across the floor, so she bit her tongue to stop them.

  After giving the letter another questioning glance, Mother seemed to accept the explanation. She couldn’t read a thing without her reading glasses anyway. “When you reply, please send my regards to her mother.”

  “Of course.” Violet stifled her sigh of relief and tucked the letter into the papers, gathering the whole stack against her chest. “I’m sorry, but I was leaving.”

  “Already? But I just sat down.”

  “Papa has asked that I help him transcribe some letters. You know how illegible his own handwriting is.”

  Mother nodded. “It is quite awful. I suppose with August running off, someone has to.” Neither she nor Papa had been very happy when August had accompanied their brother, Maxwell, on his return to New York, though knowing that the duke had joined her on the crossing had soothed them. August had been Papa’s right hand here in London, and with her gone, drafting correspondence had fallen to Violet. Not that she minded the extra task. It allowed her to spend time alone with him, and she appreciated the glimpse into the world he inhabited with her brother and sister. Working at Crenshaw Iron wasn’t in her blood, not like it was for them, but Violet enjoyed being useful.

  “All right, then. I shall see you a little later. Don’t work too hard. Remember, we have the ball tonight. Lord Ware has agreed to play escort.”

  “Lord Ware?” Pallid, dull, and with a tendency to stare at her breasts, Violet didn’t particularly care for him.

  “Mmm.” Humming through her first swallow of tea, Mother said, “Do humor him, dear. The young man is all alone in London with no parents or relatives at all from what I can tell.”

  “Fine.” Violet sighed. More stodgy people, but she shouldn’t complain because it was all fodder for her novels. Her other finished novel had featured the characters of High Society New York, so it was nice to have this change.

  Violet clutched the papers to her chest all the way to her bedroom where she hurried to her small desk and dropped them. The envelope fell out of the stack to lie on the polished wood surface. Funny how two weeks ago that letter would have meant everyth
ing to her. Now, it was a pleasant way to spend the next few minutes. Taking a seat, she turned toward the window and opened the letter.

  Dear Violet,

  Your words have caused me so much distress that I believed it best to answer your plea in a handwritten letter. When I last touched my lips to yours, my darling, I never dreamed that it might be for the last time. You are the sun, moon, and stars of my sky. Without you, my world has turned gray.

  My love for you shall go on into eternity, ceaseless in its quiet ferocity, but even I know my limitations. I haven’t the capability to compete with a British noble. My God, a duke of the realm and you, a duchess! Violet, my fair and clever girl, though it causes me great pain, I will release you from our childhood vow of matrimony. It was foolish of me to believe that I could dare hold your hand for more than a moment.

  Go to your brighter destiny with my blessing but know that I weep for myself. I have thought of nothing but holding you in my arms again since you left, and it seems that longing will never be assuaged. However, it is a burden that I gladly bear for your happiness.

  Please give my highest regards to your parents and give your father my thanks. He will understand the reason.

  Forever yours,

  Teddy

  Childhood vow? Childhood vow! It was only last summer when he had proposed to her. She was hardly a child, and he would be graduating from university soon followed by law school. He made it sound as if they had made a foolish agreement as a pair of adolescents.

  She read the letter over again, convinced that somehow she had misunderstood. But no. He was turning down her pleas for help and even encouraging her to accept another suitor. A stranger! What a toad! Did he even miss her? Had he already moved on to some other woman?